C.E. Murphy - Walking Dead

Out loud, and in an attempt to shut off the free association my brain had tumbled into, I said, “You’re taking this well.”

Sandburg gave me a small smile. “I’m really not.”

Oh. Apparently my brain should’ve just kept going with the research thing. Billy, sounding like the voice of grim patience, said, “Did you get anything off Chan?”

“Only that his migraines got worse around the cauldron, right up until the night he died.” I outlined what Jason’d told me about the encroaching darkness he’d noticed, then spread my hands. “Short of calling up a goddess, I don’t know what to do. And I don’t have 1–800-GODDESS preprogrammed into my phone.”

I got a round of dry looks. Okay, okay, I guessed I didn’t need it preprogrammed if I could spell “goddess,” but jeez, tough crowd. Billy, though, broke my discomfort by muttering, “Melinda does.”

“You cannot seriously be suggesting we get your pregnant wife involved in a death-cauldron scenario.” I spoke before thinking, but even if I’d thinked, I’d have said it anyway. Melinda’d had a traumatic enough pregnancy, thanks to me. Adding more stress to the final week of waddling was the last thing I wanted to do, even if the rational part of me recognized it was Mel’s choice. This was not about rationality. This was about Joanne Walker, Reluctant Shaman, getting all puffed up and out of sorts over the idea of her friends diving headlong into trouble just because she was in the middle of it herself.

In Billy’s defense, he didn’t look thrilled about the idea himself. On the other hand, that didn’t stop him from saying, “Know anybody else on speaking terms with a goddess?”

“I don’t,” Gary said, “but if you’re offerin’ introductions, that’s a social class I ain’t familiar with.”

I glowered at him. “You’re not helping.” He gave me a toothy white grin with no repentance in it at all. Sandburg watched the three of us like we were the final match in an exceedingly complex game of Ping-Pong. “Sonata, tell me you’ve got another solution. Any other solution.”

She shook her head. “My strengths lie in communicating with the dead, Joanne. I have no special relationship with any god.”

I could feel the enamel on my molars wearing thin. A Herculean effort unclenched them just far enough to grate, “This goddess Mel’s on speaking terms with…Is she on speaking terms with her?” I nearly backed up to try vocally capitalizing the “she” in that sentence, then decided if Cernunnos didn’t get a capital H when I referred to him as “he,” then a goddess didn’t get one, either. Not from me, anyway.

Besides, Billy followed my pronouns easily enough, shrugging a shoulder in response. “She says she does. I see dead people and my police partner heals with a touch. Who am I to argue?”

There was a certain logic to that. Not an irrefutable logic, perhaps, but I didn’t think I had the moral high ground to refute it. Bizarrely, that reminded me of Morrison’s dyed hair, and therefore of Morrison, and I spent a few seconds wondering what he’d do in my position.

Truth was, he’d do what he already had done: he’d use the resources available to him, whether he liked it or not. Billy and I lived eyeball deep in a paranormal world, so Morrison’d set us loose to play cop in that world because we were the only ones who could. If asking Melinda Holliday to chat up her patron goddess was the surest bead we had on finding the cauldron, then he’d already be halfway to their house and annoyed at me for wasting time.

Even in my hypothetical situations, he ended up annoyed with me. It was good there were some constants in the universe. Time flowed in one direction, light traveled at 9.46 trillion kilometers per year, and Captain Michael Morrison was always irritated with me. I sighed. “All right. Okay. You haven’t installed a pool at your house, have you, Billy?”

He eyeballed me. “Since you came over three weeks ago? No.”

“Just making sure.” At least I wasn’t going to bring down death and destruction on their home again. Suzy’s premonition had been of somewhere else.

Gosh. What a relief.

I shoved the thought away by jamming my fingers through my hair. “Does Mel need advance notice? Should we call ahead?” I got to my feet as I spoke. Everyone else followed suit, Gary with my drum tucked carefully under his arm. Sandburg stole glances between all of us, and I wondered what he was thinking. Possibly that we were equal parts fascinating and alarming, which was a verdict even I could get behind.

Billy took his phone off his belt, nodding. “I’ll let her know. Mr. Sandburg, thank you for grace under pressure, and I’m sorry if this was bewildering. I’ll try to explain it sometime, if you like, but in the meantime, if Sonata doesn’t mind, maybe you could drive her home?” He gave Sonny an apologetic look that she brushed off. Sandburg looked between him and Sonata, and then, evidently deducing he could be the heroic gentleman of the hour, offered the medium his arm. We all trooped out after them, Billy on the phone to Melinda as Sandburg locked up behind us. I hoped I’d never see the inside of the MoCA again, at least not as anything other than a tourist destination.

Some of my steam had bled off. I drove to Billy’s house without breaking many speed limits or giving Gary another heart attack. Billy, presumably wise in the ways of neighborhood shortcuts, managed to get home just before us, so he was the one to initially greet Melinda. She stood in their doorway, arms akimbo to her enormous tummy, and nerves surged through me all over again. I didn’t care if it was the only viable choice. I didn’t like asking Mel to be searching out death magic when she was only a few days away from giving birth. It seemed like too much could go wrong.

“My goddess is not Brigid,” she said softly, as soon as we were within earshot. “She may not be willing to help. She may not be able to. But the downstairs is ready. Eric wants you to come kiss him good-night,” she added to Billy. My partner smiled and kissed her first, then went upstairs to look in on his kids while Melinda ushered Gary and me downstairs.

I’d been in the Hollidays’ home dozens of times, and in the daylight basement half a dozen times, usually chasing the younger kids around the house in a madcap game of tag. It was fully the size of the rest of the house, with a laundry room adjacent to a large playroom. If I had four kids and Seattle’s rainy winters, I’d have wanted a room that size to keep my children entertained in, too. Especially since there was a door at the top of the stairs that could be closed, isolating piercing shrieks from the rest of the house.

There were several other doors off the playroom, none of which I’d ever really thought about before. One stood open now, the scent of fresh paint emanating from it. I peeked in, then lifted a curious eyebrow at Melinda. “It’ll be Robert’s new room,” she said with a degree of regret. “He’s old enough not to have to share with Eric, and with the new baby we won’t all fit upstairs anymore. Clara’s agitating to move down here, too, now. They’re growing up.”

“You going to let her?”

“Oh, probably. It’ll make Robert feel less alone, and she’s not old enough to think of having boys sneak in through her window yet.” Melinda made a face and opened a door at the opposite end of the playroom. “I hope. Come, this is my room.”

Gary breathed, “Sure is,” as he stepped in, and I couldn’t help but agree with him. Dozens of low-burning candles sat on small tables, illuminating the room. The floor was concrete and littered with brightly colored pillows made out of fabric ranging from rough satin to raw cotton. Rosaries and Stars of David hung from the walls, and a chalk drawing glowed on the concrete floor. I took a breath to comment, and instead inhaled a lungful of delicate sweet air. I’d never thought of Melinda having any particular scent, but the light perfume smelled like her, and was just enough to wash away the smell of candle wax and flame.